Onto

He liked to watch the eyes of platform people to see how they reacted to his work.

His letters and numbers told a story of tenement life, good and bad but mostly good. The verticals in the letter N could be drug dealers guarding a long diagonal stash of glassine product or they could be schoolgirls on a playground slide or a couple of sandlot players with a bat angled between them.

Nobody could take him down. He kinged every artist in town.

They had dozens of cans out and ready, all by prearrangement, and he called a color and they shook the can and the ball went click.

“Where’s my Perrier?” he said.

But you have to stand on the platform and see it coming or you cant know the feeling the writer gets, how the number 5 train comes roaring down the rat alleys and slams out of the tunnel, going whop-pop onto the high tracks, and suddenly there it is, Moonman riding the sky in the heart of the Bronx, over the whole burnt and rusted country, and this is the art of backstreets talking, all the way from Bird, and you cant not see us anymore, you cant not know who we are, we got total notoriety now, Momzo Tops and Rimester and me, we’re getting fame, we aint ashame, and the train go rattling over the garbagy streets and past the dead-eye windows of all those empty tenements that have people in there even if you don’t see them, but you have to see our tags and cartoon figures and bright rhyming poems, this is the art that cant stand still, it climbs across your eyeballs night and day, the flicker jumping art of the slums and dumpsters, lashing these colors in your face – like I’m your movie, motherfucker.

Don DeLillo – Underworld

きゃりーぱみゅぱみゅ- PONPONPON